


Case of the portrait of Dorian Gray

by TheMissingMask



Series: Basil lives [6]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Lord Henry is a good man, M/M, Sherlock Holmes on a Case, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock, Victorian Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 08:15:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16260260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMissingMask/pseuds/TheMissingMask
Summary: Sherlock and Watson are hired to investigate the case of a young man who has remained completely unchanged for years, despite rumours of his terrible conduct.





	Case of the portrait of Dorian Gray

**Author's Note:**

> Because evidently I have a bloody anthology coming along of all the ways I can think of to save Basil. XD
> 
> Lord Henry is a little OOC in this because, hey, he's got feels! Sherlock is also a little less impassive than he might have been, but he does have a heart hiding away somewhere, so who can blame him? I've attempted to write in the style of John Watson from the Sherlock Holmes books, so hopefully that sort of works...

In all my extensive collection of notes and records on the cases investigated by Sherlock Holmes, there is not a one that could be said to be commonplace. Indeed, a case that is insufficiently queer would fail to arrest such a brilliant mind as that of the consulting detective. However, there are a small handful of instances where the mysterious circumstances that presented themselves during a case were so singular that they bordered precariously close to the supernatural.

Of course, my esteemed companion abhors the very notion of all that which is ‘otherworldly’. To him, every phenomenon can be explained by means of logical reasoning. A singular concoction of chemicals or a clever trick with light and mirrors. However bizarre things might appear, there is to be found a rational explanation. Readers may recall _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ as a case in point.

No matter how curious, no matter how unholy, no matter how seemingly impossible. It is never the supernatural.

Or, rather more accurately, it is _almost_ never the supernatural.

There is but a single case in my records for which a rational scientific explanation could not be found even by the great logical mind that is Sherlock Holmes, and I do not believe one shall ever be found. Concerned that, were that case to be made public, the peculiar features surrounding it might bring to our doors a host of clairvoyants and other such psychical types - not to mention the names of considerable notoriety it includes - Holmes has requested that I do not publish the particulars. However, it was one of such intrigue and abstract reasoning on the part of my esteemed companion, that I write it up for my readers nonetheless. Perhaps at some future date the scientific basis for the strange circumstances surrounding the portrait of Mr Dorian Gray will become evident or, the more likely, Holmes will on a whim grant permission for the publication. At that point I will be justified in the release of this account. Until that time, however, it will remain bound and hidden with all its dark secrets in my tin box of Holmes’ unpublishable cases.

***

It was one of those still and bitterly cold nights that draws humanity within their doors and towards their fires. Even the stifling fog of the city was tinged with the icy edge of impending winter, and the few souls who dared to venture outside did so swathed in layers of overcoats and mufflers and gloves, shuffling about like great moving bundles rather than human beings.

My companion and I sat together with our chairs drawn up beside the fire. I was engaged in a novel, reading to the pleasant backdrop of Holmes’ violin singing out a gentle melody that was simultaneously nostalgic and entirely unknown to me. The scene was one of rare calm and peculiar domesticity for us. In recent months, it had seemed that case followed case and my friend must have, at any one time, been balancing in his mind the particulars of at least a dozen mysteries, a new one presenting itself just as a previous had reached its conclusion. With this steady flow of work, we had scarcely seen a moment of calm such as this, and I was contemplating just that very fact when the musical ministrations came to an abrupt halt.

“Was that the bell?” Holmes said, looking instinctively towards the door through which any new guest would enter, “Ah, yes. I do believe, my dear Watson, that we are in rather distinguished company.”

As he spoke there sounded footfalls on the stairs leading up to our rooms, accompanied by the sharp tap of a cane. No doubt Holmes had already identified the manufacturer of the shoes and the material of the cane, and had thus come to this conclusion regarding the nature of our visitor. To me, however, the steps taken to that deduction were a mystery and I awaited with anticipation to see whether my friend was right.

There was a knock on the door that could only be described as resolute. Holmes stood and straightened up the vacant chair in which our clients were bade sit, remaining then behind it as he called out for the stranger to enter.

In immediate response, the door opened and in stalked a dark-haired, long-limbed man in the finest dress clothes that ever I had seen, and with an air of such languid grace that his every movement seemed to have an almost calming effect on the observer.  
“Forgive the intrusion at so late an hour.” The words were said without the slightest hint of genuine apology for the purported ‘intrusion’.

“Pray, hang your coat and hat on the hooks there, and take a seat here.” Holmes gestured to the empty chair, “And let us hear what it is that brings you by at ‘so late an hour’.”

The man obeyed, taking out a silver cigarette case as he descended into the chair.

“You don’t mind if I smoke.” He stated, rather than asked.

“By all means.” My friend replied, then added, “An interesting blend you have there.”

A small smile crossed the man’s lips and he passed the case to Holmes, “Please.”

Holmes was, of course, more than contented to accept the offering of tobacco, and soon the room became filled with coiling blue wreaths of heavy, opium-tainted smoke.

For several long minutes, the pair sat smoking contentedly in silence, displaying together the most carefree, relaxed scene I had ever before perceived. Both bodies seemed utterly boneless as they lounged in their respective seats before the crackling fire. At last, the gentleman spoke, voice rich and gravelly, like an expensive velvet.

“Do you take stock in physiognomy?” He asked.

Holmes nodded, “Certainly I have known it to hold more or less true in all but the most rare cases.”

“Well, Mr Holmes, it is one such rare case that brings me to your door.” He took a long, indulgent drag from his cigarette, “A friend - yes, friend, for he is certainly pleasant to look upon - who I have known for, oh, I’d say several years now has become the most indulgent sinner that ever I have known - which is remarkable when you consider the extent of my knowledge of the upper classes of this city and the extent of their collective depravity, so called by the remits of society. And yet in all the years we have been in each other’s company, he has not changed even the slightest. If the rumours are to be believed, and I do believe them, he ought be a singularly hellish picture, and yet he is as much an idol of aesthetic perfection as he ever was. It is remarkable! One would have thought him to have made a pact with the devil himself to keep that beauty untarnished, were one inclined to subscribe to such ideas.”

“Which you are not?”

The client shrugged one shoulder, “I can’t imagine what interest old Lucifer should have in Dorian Gray.”

Holmes, who had until now been sitting back in his chair with eyes half-lidded and fingertips pressed together, gave a start and sat suddenly upright.

“Dorian Gray?”

“Indeed. Do you know him?”

“The name is familiar.” Holmes sat back again, but I could see he was listening with considerably more interest now, “Pray, do go on Lord Wotton.”

Our visitor laughed at the identification, which I confess had me utterly bewildered.

“Was it the cigarettes?” He asked, bringing one to his lips to punctuate the question.

“I am myself somewhat of a connoisseur, and there are few men in London who subscribe to this particular flavour.”

“A fact upon which I pride myself.”

“Rightly so.” Said Holmes, “Now, tell me more about Mr Dorian Gray.”

“Dorian is outwardly a perfect Adonis, or really more a Narcissus. The very personification of youthful beauty and innocence. Golden curled hair, rosey cheeks, charming smiles, and all the such. Whilst I find little interest in something so perfect - perfection is really very dull - many others are drawn to him for his beauty. And for that beauty also, he is beyond reproach from all the unintelligent characters in the play of society. Which is almost the entire cast. At first, I confess that I held some interest in observing the decay of that perfection. There’s something very restoring when perfection is lost, so impossible a truth as it is. I may have played a minor role in the initiation of that decay, although it was an inevitability from the first.”

“And how did you elect to initiate that decay, as you word it?”

“Oh. I merely lent him a copy of _Against Nature_ , which exposed him to the great many possible indulgences one might take in this century of dull rules and conventions. And, like the protagonist he indulged to the utmost luxury in all that is sinful, although often doing so under some cover such that only rumours reached the ears of others. The aristocracy are generally an ignorant and blind people, save for one or two with moderate intellect, and so few noticed at first the undoubted truth to these rumours. After all, how could Dorian be indulging thus when he appeared so perfect? Recently there has been greater acceptance of their truth, accompanied by the fall from grace of a good number of the notable people, including at least one suicide and a multitude of exciles. My sister, too, has been disgraced beyond repair. In all instances, these destructions are the immediate sequetor of an association with Dorian Gray.”

Holmes tapped some ash from his cigarette into the grate, “How did you meet Mr Gray?”

“At the studio of Basil Hallward, who was painting a portrait of Dorian at the time. He rather wanted to keep Dorian a secret. It is a little fancy of Basil to keep the things precious to him secrets. I don’t believe he has ever introduced me to anyone…but, then, I already know everyone.”

He took up a second cigarette, lit it, and breathed it in like sweet summer air.

“Basil is deceptively plain. An intellectual man with excellent capacity for conversation with his intimates, but considerably taciturn and coldly polite towards everyone else. A rather antisocial sort, but often they do make the most pleasant company. We have been associated since our Oxford days. He is aesthetic in his own way, but with the morality and sense of righteousness of a saint. Always reproaching my frankness and scolding his friends for their impropriety. He is a good fellow. Rather too good for this country, certainly for this city, with all its toxic fog and even more toxic people.”

“You met Dorian in his studio…” Holmes encouraged a return to the topic in hand, seeing as I did that this visitor had an impressive capacity for vocalisation.

“Yes, in his studio.” The man waved a cigarette-baring hand absently, “Basil is an artist, and like all artists is utterly obsessed with beauty. And, therefore, obsessed with Dorian Gray.”

There was something decidedly bitter about those words. A carefully tempered annoyance dwelt beneath his well-schooled features. He drew a long breath from the cigarette as a drowning man would upon finally reaching the air.

“Dorian came to model for his portrait while I was making a social call, and he and I talked while Basil worked. The painting, which he finished that day, was an unparalleled masterpiece of fine beauty, meticulous in its details as is Basil’s style. I thought it absurd that Basil had said he wouldn’t exhibit it. There was ‘too much of himself in it’, so he said! But when Dorian saw it, he went up in a fit of hysteria. It was so obscenely dramatic, almost comical really. I supposed that Dorian couldn’t bear to see something more beautiful than himself, for the painting was certainly that. What’s more, it would always be that beautiful. I had wanted to buy the thing, but Basil refused, and seeing Dorian’s despair offered to destroy it. Dorian panicked and pleaded him to do no such thing. Someway or another, the painting ended up with Dorian and I have not seen it since. I suppose he destroyed it himself, since he has refused to allow Basil to exhibit, or even see, it. That was the dramatic scene within which he and I first met.”

“Why did you want to buy the painting yourself?” Holmes asked, barely moving his eyes from their half-lidded state that they generally assumed when he was listening to a client’s story.

“For the very reason Basil would not exhibit it.” He answered frankly.

“Thank you.” Holmes said, “At what point did you notice the lack of change in Mr Gray? Can you be certain it was not a feature of him before?”

“Certainly not. I did not know him before. But, as for when I first noted it, that was after the suicide of his fiancee.”

Homes’ eyes opened a fraction wider in interest, “Miss Vain?”

“The very same. A young actress with whom Dorian had become captivated. He broke her heart after she performed Juliet terribly one night, and the following day she was found to have committed suicide in the theatre. Dorian had not used his real name in courting her, so no connection was made, and very soon the thing was forgotten. Dorian seemed entirely unconcerned by the entire affair within a few hours of hearing about it, and I confess I aided in that respect. In any case, he bore no marks of grief or, as I had more expected to see, of the unkind words he must have spoken to lead to her dramatic exit from the world.”

“And after that?”

“There has been no specific event so evident as that.” Answered the lord, shrugging nonchalantly, “Dorian has been seen in the opium dens and engaging prostitutes, or at least a man who may be him has, and often in the company of another, who is undoubtedly by a step away from their own social or physical demise. He has been involved in no small number of affairs, and I got the impression he hold the power of blackmail over at least two of his close friends. In society, I have known him to speak particularly cruelly to some of our acquaintances, never to be reproached, and as one must be hurt in such exchanges, invariably it is the other party who suffers from the words.”

“Do these other parties include Mr Hallward?”

“Naturally.” The tone was cold.

"One or two more questions, Lord Wotton.”

The stately man nodded assent.

“You are lately divorced, I perceive.”

The man looked briefly surprised and then glanced down at his left hand, “You note the absence of my wedding band.”

“Among other things.”

“We divorced last year on account of her wanting to marry another.”

“Were there bitter feelings?”

“Not at all. It was quite pleasant, really.”

“Why are you bringing this case to me?” Holmes asked next.

“Curiosity.”

“Pray tell the truth, Lord Wotton, it makes things considerably more straightforward.”

“Well observed, Mr Holmes.” Lord Henry tapped a long finger against his thigh in thought, then finally spoke again, “I have a sense if impending tragedy and would rather like to avert it.”

“It is wise to listen to those little intuitions, very wise.” Holmes counselled, “Is it to Dorian you think this tragedy will come?”

“Were it so, I wouldn’t have concerned myself with coming here.”

“Another of your intimates then?”

“I don’t have intimates, Mr Holmes. The entire prospect of putting that much sentiment into other people is quite alarming.”

“Just the one, then?”

Lord Henry’s silence was confirmation. A strange sense of familiarity came over me listening to the exchange, and I recalled the very off-handed comment from Holmes one terribly stormy night when a client came to our door.

_  
Seated together in our rooms, we had both suddenly started and I glanced up at my companion. “That was surely the bell,” I said, “Who would come tonight? Some friend of yours perhaps?”_

_“Except yourself, I have none,” came his answer.  
_

The simplicity of the words was such that I didn’t comprehend fully their meaning until many days later. Evidently, this socialite of the aristocracy was as particular in his definition of relations as my reclusive companion.

"Mr Hallward is very fond of Mr Gray, I am to take it?” Holmes continued his interrogation along an undoubtedly precipitous vein.

"He is in love with the ideal of his beauty." Lord Henry shrugged, "Happening upon a model who defines human aestheticism, it is only natural that he should elevate that person in his mind to some godlike greatness. As I said, Basil is an artist.  I do not, however, believe he is so fond of Dorian himself.  Rather, were he willing to recognise the real Dorian, he would not be. No doubt he would deplore him for the truth of his sins.  Basil is very moralistic like that.  Very dull.  He believes humans should be kind to each other, benevolent, and anything unsightly or cruel should remain cloistered as a secret."

"You do not share that opinion?”

“Temptations should be indulged in, however unbecoming, or they may fester and grow unpleasant.”

“All temptations?”

“Those that do no significant harm to one’s circle, in the very least. It is in human nature to be indifferent to those with whom you are not associated, and affectionate with those you have cause to care for.”

“Indeed.” My friend hummed thoughtfully, and then rose, “Well, Lord Wotton, I will do what I can to shed some light onto this singular problem. I should expect some developments within the next few days. If you would remain in London for that time, it would be immensely helpful.”

“Certainly.” The man stood and moved to reclaim his outer garments, “You know where to find me, I presume.”

“Naturally.”

With that final word from my friend and a nod of goodnight from our client, the man quitted our room and we heard his footfalls and the clack of his cane descending the stairs.

As the clatter of the horses’ hooves faded away down the street, Holmes went to his catalogue of records on people of note he had encountered in his many years in his self-appointed role.

“Have you ever heard the name Dorian Gray before, Watson?”

“No. It is new to me.” I answered.  
Holmes was rifling through the ‘G’ section, repeatedly muttering the surname of the mysterious Narcissus under his breath until he landed upon the information of interest.

“Ah!” He exclaimed, pulling out a few pages, “Dorian Gray. In himself, not a man of much note. No occupation. Plays the piano. Well known and, at one time, well-loved among the gentry.”

“At one time?”

“Hmm. Yes, at one time. He seems to have rather fallen from grace over the years, although perhaps without loss of his grace, if our client speaks accurately.”

“Is he a criminal then?” I asked, but Holmes shook his head, muttering almost to himself.

“No, not a criminal, not as such…see here, Watson!” He had until now been reading a sheet of text in his own hand, “That name has come up in association with several cases these past few years. The disappearance of poor Lady Agatha - you recall that from the papers - quite the scandal! And…here!”

He drew forth another sheet.

“The one lucid word I could get out of the pitiful Adrian Singleton as he lay cut off from the world in an opium den. And, again, a man of his description was said to have been courting that young unknown actress, Miss Vain, before she committed suicide. Ah, see? The chemist, Alan Campbell, who was so disgraced after a time of inseparability from Dorian Gray. He has withdrawn entirely from society now, and his mother came to me some months ago in utter despair over his disappearance. When I found him, he didn’t want to be found and it was all I could do to console the old woman that he was in the very least alive. And then there is more. A prostitute he is thought to have been seen with found hanged in her own room two days after. And more still! The eldest son of Sir Richard Lionel privately disowned, the young sailor Jack Harrington disappeared without a word after several nights gaming with Dorian Gray. The list is a truly remarkable one, Watson!”

He laid down the papers and looked up at me.

“And likely just the beginning of it. This young man seems to spread disaster and disgrace like the plague among all those with whom he associates. And yet he seems to remain untarnished throughout. A very singular one this is indeed!”

Holmes said nothing more for the rest of that evening, but sat smoking his most acrid pipe, curled up in his chair where he remained long after I had gone to bed. In the morning, I awoke to find, not to my surprise, that he had already left. I remained in our lodgings in case he, or one of his agents, should come bearing news on the matter, but it was not until long after nightfall that I finally heard the tell-tale frantic patter of feet sprinting up our stairs.

The Sherlock Holmes that burst in through the door was the blood hound on the scent, the very personification of excited energy. A stark contrast from the languid, taciturn creature that so often haunted our lodgings.

“Watson!” Holmes cried, clasping me by the arms as he stole into the room, “Come, quick! I have it! I have it!”

“You’ve solved it?” I asked, already starting to pull on my boots in expectation of our incipient adventure.

“I believe so. By jove, this is a singular one, Watson! Have you your revolver?”

“Of course.” I said, tapping my coat pocket.

“Just as well. We might need it.”

With that ominous word, we quitted our rooms and went out into the night.

Holmes already had a cab waiting outside, and it drove us swiftly through the darkened streets to a large, old house in some part of London I don’t think I had ever before seen. Yet, for all that, it could have been our very own Baker Street and I might not have known for the thick fog.

The night was a cold one and were it not for the thrill of the hunt rushing through my veins, it might have been unpleasant. We crept swiftly around the side of the building, using shadow and fog to conceal ourselves in the dark, although the general lack of lights coming from within the house suggested a lack of necessity for our efforts. In fact, there was but one light weakly filtering out through a window near the top, above the settled fog. It was towards this that Holmes’ eyes were fixed.

“Quick Watson.” He said in a harsh whisper, “We may be too late.”

Motioning for me to follow, he hurried over to the wall, where a great old ivy plant crawled its way up the uneven stone, curling in places around a drainpipe. Using the plant and metal pipe to equal degrees, Holmes ascended the wall. I followed obediently after, for I knew well by now that my friend never did anything without a definite, and usually critical, purpose behind it. Used to such excursions as we both were, and propelled by the evident urgency of the situation - the specifics of which were as yet a mystery to me - we scaled the wall with little trouble.

Not pausing even a second upon reaching it, Holmes motioned for me to help him, and together we put our shoulders to the window, sending it opening inwards with a loud crash.

Inside the small room, which smelt of dust and old leather, there were two figures, illuminated softly by the light of a single lamp. One, who I immediately deduced to be Dorian Gray, for he was a man of exquisite masculine beauty, was standing over a seated dark-haired figure. One of his elegant pale hands was gripped in the dark hair, shoving the man’s head against a table, whilst the other brandished an already bloodied knife, the blade of which he was just withdrawing from deep within the other man’s neck, at the juncture of it with the collarbone.

I drew my revolver and aimed it at Dorian’s head.

"Put the knife down, Mr Gray.”

The young man stared wide-eyed between Holmes, from whom the stern order had come, and the barrel of my revolver, and then down at the bloodied knife in his hand.  With a start he staggered back, the blade falling from his grasp as if it were red hot, and in an instant Holmes was upon him.  There was a brief struggle as my partner restrained Dorian, but this I was aware of in only the vaguest sense. I had no doubt in Holmes’ capabilities in overpowering almost any man of moderate stature, and most men physically greater than himself. He was an excellent boxer and possessed a strength one would have hardly given him credit for.

I focused, therefore, on the other man, who was curled in on himself on the chair, one hand clutching at the left side of his neck and the other brought in front of his mouth as his breath came in agonised gasps. He seemed unaware of my presence as I knelt before him. It was too dark in that room to get any sense of the dimensions of the wound, but it was evidently bleeding a lot.  Removing my scarf, I placed it firmly over the area, and by some unspoken understanding Holmes tossed over his own, which I used to secure the makeshift bandage in an attempt to at least slow the loss of blood sufficiently for some more effective course of action to be taken.

“This is bleeding too much." I announced urgently, falling naturally into the habit of my former profession, "We need to cauterise the wound."

It was rare for Sherlock Holmes to be the one taking directions from me, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of novel delight at the notion, in spite of the rather macabre circumstances.  Not releasing the restraining grip he had on Dorian, who's eyes were those of a wild beast in a trap, he walked around to take up the lamp from the centre of the room, positioned it open on the floor at my knee and then placed into my hand the very knife that had only minutes before been deep in the my patient’s neck.

The several minutes for which I heated the blade in the blue flame felt to drag into hours, and I was all the time vividly aware of the blood seeping through our scarves and the man’s shirt, dripping steadily to the floor below. Dorian’s eyes, too, seemed to be watching this with a morbid fascination that seemed impossible to reconcile with his so pleasant visage. Holmes, however, when I looked up to him, had his gaze trained on a portrait unveiled at one end of the room. It depicted a man with such features of cruelty and bitter disdain that the very sight of it was sickening. Never in my life have a seen such a horrible countenance as that monstrosity in the painting. It seemed now to be watching us too, observing with an expression of satisfaction as I withdrew the blade from the flame and pressed it against the open wound.

The man flinched and struggled involuntarily against my securing hold, letting out terribly weakened cries of pain as the burning metal seared his flesh. But I was deaf to the discomfort, working with the same impassive severity I had learnt on the field of battle. All the time I could feel the satyr in the portrait watching with unrestrained pleasure the bloody consequence of his corporeal form’s violence. It was as much for the sake of spite against that monstrosity as for the patient’s life that I determined the man should not die.

When at last the procedure was complete, I looked my patient over as best I could in the limited  
light.  He was deathly pale and panting through parted white lips, but his eyes remained lucid enough to give me hopes for his surviving this ordeal.

"Well Watson?" Holmes asked from behind me.

"I will need to examine him in better light, but the bleeding seems to have been stemmed.”

"Excellent.  We've not a moment to lose."

"Wait!" Dorian cried, attempting to resist as Holmes tugged him towards the door, "What is this?  Are you the police?  It was self defense.  Basil attacked me terribly, and I was forced to fight back for fear he might kill me."

Holmes chuckled, "He attacked you behind himself while seated in a chair, did he?  Quite the combatant he must be!"

"Don't laugh!  It's true!"

"Of course." There was an amused sarcasm in Holmes' tone that seemed to enrage the smaller man, "But, we are not the official police, and although I am inclined to take you straight to the yard for assault and attempted murder, not to mention your myriad other disreputable practices, I don't think Mr Hallward will have any intention of pressing charges. Now, let us have silence if you will Mr Gray, we have delayed long enough.  Come Watson!  Bring your patient, and let's see if we can't wrap this little mystery up once and for all."

Within an hour, our strange company was assembled in the drawing room of Lord Henry Wotton.  We had taken a cab over to the magnificent estate, paying the driver double the normal fare for his promise of silence on the matter and to compensate for any blood that might need be cleaned from his vehicle.  I, not for the first time, wondered how many of London's cabs had, at one time or another, suffered from the aftermath of one of Holmes' cases.

Lord Henry had been awake and reading in his library, clad in a silk dressing gown that, as was suggested by his tailored white waistcoat and dress clothes beneath, must have replaced a frock coat from some event earlier that night.  With all his servants long since having retired, he admitted us himself with a grave expression on his previously so stoic features. We were immediately led into a spacious and beautifully furnished room with wood panelling and a deep mahogany fireplace in which there dwindled the dying embers of a fire.  He turned up the gas, and a series of lamps lining the walls drew the space into brilliant illumination.

In the light thus created, we for the first time saw the disarrayed state of our charges.  Dorian's hands were covered with blood, his curling gold hair tossed about like a bed of coiling snakes, and his eyes wild and desparate.  And, yet, there was something still so perfectly lovely about him.  The other man, Basil Halllward by conjecture, was as pale as his shirt had been before his own blood had saturated it. His dark hair was matted with sweat and the transfer of blood, and his eyes seemed to droop every few seconds as he clung desperately to consciousness and leant heavily on me for support.

It was to the wounded man that Lord Henry strode.  He clasped the side of the artist's neck just above the roughly sealed wound, his thumb against the jawline.  I observed pass between them a wordless conversation, as only men who truly know each other can hold, and I felt touched by the sincerity of concern displayed in Lord Henry's eyes.  The man, like Holmes himself, evidently did not go in for emotion.  Feelings were reserved for but a few people.  I was privileged to be one of that few for Holmes, and Basil Hallward clearly stood in Lord Henry Wotton’s number.

Distantly, I became aware that I was not the only one watching the pair.  Dorian's eyes were on them too, and had grown from frightened to enraged as he observed the intimacy.

"Harry!" He interrupted their silent exchange, "What is going on?  These men suddenly burst into my home and dragged me here, and they won't believe me when I tell them that Basil attacked me and I was just..."

"Shut up, Dorian." Lord Henry growled suddenly and with such venom that we all started.  In an instant, the severity was gone and he had turned to me.

"You're a doctor?"

“Yes.”

"What do you need?"

“Clean water, bandages, brandy, and a blanket."

With a nod, the man stepped forward to wrap an arm about Basil's waist, taking his weight from me and bidding me to follow him from the room.  We entered a small kitchen that serviced the drawing room directly, and was evidently not the main one for the house.  In there I was supplied with the first two of my requested materials, the bandages coming from a small kit of medical supplies stored in a high cupboard.  They were of an excellent quality, and I was able to do a really quite tidy job of dressing the cauterised wound.  Fortunately the blade had clearly hit no major arteries, although I suspect it must have glanced off the bone slightly on the way in.  Although already having lost a considerable amount of blood, the patient was not worsening, so I had hopes of his survival.  Lord Henry had vanished for some time, and then brought in a clean shirt and dressing gown, along with a fur blanket.  We helped the patient to redress, gave him a glass of brandy that brought a little colour into his cheeks, and finally returned to the room where Holmes waited with a sulky Dorian Gray by the now rekindled fire. Outside the sky was paling with a creeping dawn, and the first stirrings of servants were sounding in the corridors.

My friend was watching Dorian with unveiled distaste.  It was evident to me that the extent of the lad's connection with the annals of crime and slander ran deeper than any of us might have guessed. Holmes certainly seemed to have considerable contempt for the man sat before him.

Lord Henry positioned Basil in a softly cushioned seat by the hearth and wrapped the fur about his shoulders, taking a seat on the arm of that same chair, his long frame forming an effective barrier between the artist and Dorian.  I sat on a sofa beside Holmes and, at last, he interrupted the silence that had fallen upon our company.

"Now, Mr Gray, would you care to explain the situation, or shall I?"

“I fail to see what business this is of yours in the first instance.”

"It is a business in which I engaged him." Lord Henry stated, once again assuming his cool languid air, but unable to quite keep out the simmering anger from his voice.

"Quite so." said Holmes, “And a business in which I take a considerable interest on behalf of the rest of London. Now, the essential fact is this. The portrait of Dorian Gray, painted several years ago by Mr Hallward, is subject to every change that ought to be observed upon the man himself. That is to say, the portrait changes, whilst he does not.”

I stared in amazement at this explanation that, to my mind, seemed so utterly impossible. Had I not been there and felt it’s terrible gaze upon me, there is no question that I would have refused to believe so singular a statement and would have feared Holmes to be intoxicating himself with narcotics once more.

Lord Henry raised his thick eyebrows.

“So, Dorian, your foolish prayer was actually heeded?” He looked upon the lad with indifference, “And the real Dorian Gray is hiding inside a gilted frame. How dreadfully disappointing. What’s the use in sin if we can’t wear it?”

“It was not foolish, Harry! It was you who said…”

“I say a great many things, Dorian, and only believe a trifle of them. Basil knows that well.” He smiled coldly at the other man’s indignation, “I wonder what power it is that answers the prayers of silly hysteric boys.”

“Don’t call me that!” Dorian cried, “It was not silly, and what’s more, I don’t know what this man - whoever he is - is talking about!”

“Sherlock Holmes.” My companion answered the unasked question of his identity, “And my partner Dr Watson. Now, there is not much more for me to say on the matter. Evidently, for many years you beguiled everyone with your physical beauty and outward show of innocence, while undertaking various depraved acts without any suspicion or reproach falling on you. Those with whom you associated, however, were not so fortunate. Unchanging, you did not descend into the depths of uncontrollable opium addiction when your friends fell victim to it. You were saved from the diseases ripe in the unbecoming habitations you visited, but all others around you suffered. An affair had your partner ruined, but you remained untouched by scandal, at least until after it was too late for so many of your victims. Your friends have suffered the consequences that you ought to have borne. They trusted you, worshipped you as a figure of perfection, and you destroyed their lives.”

There was an anger creeping into Holmes’ voice such as I had seldom heard. I hadn’t looked through his file on Dorian Gray, but I knew already that there were more than just harmless scandals written there.

“This is madness!” Cried Dorian as desperation overpowered reason and he looked to the one man in the room who he hoped might hold some sympathy for him still, “Harry, can you believe this? Surely you can’t!”

Lord Henry surveyed the lad with an unimpressed gaze.

“I can believe it, Dorian.” He replied calmly, “And, more to the point, I do believe it.”

Holmes continued as if there had been no interruption.

“Rumours began to circulate because you can only hide behind your own beauty for so long. You were shunned and cast away by the friends and relatives of those you had destroyed. But you retained some loyal company. Those who genuinely cared for you and not just your outward appearance. Such as Basil Hallward, who confronted you on the matter tonight, no doubt for your own good, in his mind at the very least. That we found you before the painting suggests you told him your secret. Of course, before attempting to murder him. Why was that, Dorian? Because he knew? Or, rather I expect more likely, because he wanted to help.”

“It is none of his concern!” Dorian snarled, and once again I was struck with the terrible oxymoron in the contortion of that untarnished beauty into something so cruel, “This is a miracle which he gave to me. And he fancies he could take it away. That he has any right to take it away!”

“Indeed, Dorian.” Hallward murmured weakly from behind Lord Henry, “I have no right to interfere in your life. Just as you had no right to destroy the lives of Lady Gwendolyn or Sir Henry Ashton or Lord Kent’s family or any of the others you have broken. All of us were…”

He paused to rally himself, the effects of the injury evidently still wearing him down.

“We were fooled by your beauty…except for Harry. You said from the start…” He turned to look up at the gentleman beside him, “And you claim me to be the intellectual one.”

I saw a small smile play on Lord Henry’s lips as he reached back to take Basil’s hand in a silent comforting gesture.

“Now, we have the facts.” Holmes declared, “The only question left for us is what are we to do?”

“Nothing.” Dorian interjected petulantly, “Not a one of you can tell me what to do with that painting, or with my life.”

“I’m afraid, Mr Gray,” Holmes smiled coldly, “That this cannot be allowed to continue. You have already ruined too many lives. And we can in the very least have you arrested for attempted murder. But I think that charge would not quite match up to your past misdeeds.”

As Holmes fell into silent musing, his eyes locked with Lord Henry’s. After a moment, the gentleman gave a small nod, and his hand tightened on Basil’s. A sense of unease crept over me.

“Come Watson.” Holmes stood suddenly and made for the door, “I do not think there is anything more we can do here just now.”

I hurried after him and out into the chill of the morning. The pervasive sensation of impending horror followed us as we left the great mansion and caught a cab back towards the home of Dorian Gray.

By the time we had arrived, the dawn had fully blossomed, and brought with it all the pale grey hues of a melancholy late autumn day. There were more lights in the windows now, suggesting an emergence of the servants from their beds and their commencement of daily work.

At the front door we were met by a polite young maid, who informed us that neither the master nor his valet were awake yet, and perhaps we had better call back later. But, Holmes is a master of charm when it comes to the fairer sex, despite his lack of interest in them generally, and before too long we had been admitted to the house. At the first moment that presented itself, we mounted the stairs and stole our way into the little room that bore the terrible portrait.

It seemed all the more monstrous now, as the light from the window cast sharp shadows upon it, angular spikes that broke up and hid parts of the grotesque figure.

Holmes picked up the little knife that had been used to stab Basil, and which had been discarded on the floor after its use in my operation. My breath caught when he turned towards the painting with it and, in a strong, deliberate motion, plunged the blade into the heart of the horrid creature. Were it a real man, such a blow would have killed almost instantly. Within the blink of an eye, and without any warning, we were suddenly faced no more with the cruel eyes and snarling lips, but with a beautiful golden-haired lad with serenity written upon his aesthetic features, rose lips curled into a soft smile.

“What have you done?!” I cried, but Holmes paid no heed. He stared in utter solemnity at the portrait and turned without a word to exit the room.

We returned immediately to Lord Henry’s. The butler, now roused from sleep and on his duties, led us to the closed door of the drawing room and knocked.

“What is it?” Lord Henry’s voice came from within, as calm and composed as ever.

“Mr Holmes and Dr Watson to see you, sir.”

“They may enter.”

“Might I call upon the police now, sir?”

“No. These gentlemen are detectives. I’d sooner speak with them.”

“Very good sir.”

At that, the butler opened the door and closed it behind us as we walked in.

The frieze with which we were confronted was that from a tragedy. In the centre of the room lay Dorian, knife protruding from his breast and blood pooled beneath his lifeless body. That it was Dorian Gray, I knew only because the form and features were just as in that terrible painting. There was almost no resemblance left to the beautiful lad who now reposed within the silver frame.

Lord Henry was sat on a couch beside Basil Hallward, one hand holding a cigarette and the other around the trembling shoulders of the artist, who stared emptily at the corpse.

Around the room there were all the signs of a scuffle. A broken window, a shattered carafe of water, vases and tables and little trinkets all knocked over. At first I thought that perhaps I had been incorrect in my expectation that the wound had been so instantly fatal. But then I observed Holmes wandering around and moving objects here and there, and scooping some glass from outside the window to scatter on the floor within, and I understood.

“Have you a story prepared?” Holmes asked quietly as he made his adjustments.

“He tried to kill poor Basil last night and then, having failed, came here to make an attempt on us both. I stabbed him in defence after a struggle.”

The voice was cold and bore a forced lack of emotion.

Holmes nodded, and then looked about the room again. Both he and I have always maintained that, were he to have chosen upon that path, he would have made an excellent criminal. Now that conjecture was born out as he continued flitting this way and that to arrange the perfect evidence to corroborate Lord Henry’s story. 

And not a person doubted it. No charges were pressed against him, although he was forced to attend a brief court appearance during which so many witnesses attested to Dorian Gray’s reputed conduct that no one doubted that he would eventually have turned to murder. The case was dismissed and, after some three months of gossip and rumours among the gentry, it was all but forgotten. The pervading rumour by the end was that he had some secret to appearing so young and lovely, and that Basil Hallward had found it out. When he failed at first to kill the artist, it was to Lord Henry who he turned for help in completing the matter. But, Lord Henry was a good man - the best of gentlemen, the listener would repeat - and defended his friend nobly. The boost to Lord Henry’s reputation was notable, and he received sudden attention from a great many single ladies after that. People generally thought the attempt on Basil’s life very romantic, and perfectly becoming for an artist. Several of his paintings were purchased from galleries during that time, and several more through the intermediary of Lord Henry, who took it upon himself to act as agent for his friend.

Basil was, at the time, unable to do any of this himself. Immediately following the events just relayed, the artist succumbed to a terrible fit of brain fever that had him incapacitated for nearly a year. Being estranged from his family, this year he spent in the home of Lord Henry, in a luxuriously decorated bedroom with his every need seen to. I know this because Lord Henry had me attend him as physician, insisting on paying me well above my normal fee, I suppose as some assurance that I should not utter a single one of the ravings Basil spoke in his illness. And I shall not.

I will, however, recount one conversation between myself and Lord Henry that took place over this time, one day when I was visiting my patient. This serves to, I believe, complete the story of Dorian Gray. There are some who would believe that he became wicked as a consequence of societal influences. That it is an inevitable path for any who have the fortune of good looks, that they are fated to walk without barrier along a path of sin until that sin is too great to ever recover from. I do not agree with this fatalistic opinion. There must be something already inherently sinful in someone for them to fall to such levels of depravity, so that society cannot be made to take the blame in full.

That day, while taking tea with the man after seeing to Basil’s recovery, I ventured to ask the one question that, in my mind, remained from the case.

“But why take an interest in Dorian’s sin at all? Why send him a book that you knew would misguide him?”

The gentleman paused with his cigarette part way to his mouth, seemed to decide on something, and continued to take a drag from the cigarette.

“Do you know why the painting of Dorian was so much more lovely than ever he was?”

I shook my head. The painting had been sold to a gallery in Venice under the title of ‘Adonis’, and fetched a very handsome price. In its repaired state it was certainly even more stunning than the real form of Dorian had been.

“Because it held something of Basil in it.” Lord Henry explained, “He is a good man, and that shows in his eyes. Dorian’s eyes never bore a whisper of gentle kindness. His held a cruelty that I wonder no one else perceived. Basil told me that he used to say things, in the early days of their friendship, that were horribly thoughtless. That he delighted in giving him pain. And yet Basil was so taken by his beauty, which for him is the only purpose of art and thus the purpose for his life. He bore the pain without seeing the cruelty behind it. I suppose he was willing to sacrifice himself for the beauty, for his art. But…”

And, here, Lord Henry looked sadly to the sleeping form of his friend on the bed, visible through the door to the adjoining room.

“That was not a sacrifice I was willing, nor shall ever be willing, to make. I understood what Dorian was, what he really was, even before he and I met. From experience, beauty and loveliness fade faster when one indulges in sinful acts. I wanted to hurry him towards sin so that others would see Dorian for the inevitable monster he was.”

“So Basil would see it?”

He hummed in agreement, “I had hoped to save him from Dorian.”

“You did.” I said, “Aside from a scar and a small spot of brain fever.”

Lord Henry laughed and lay his head back against the chair, “Yes. But he does look rather gallant with a scar."

After his recovery, Basil took up permanent residence with Lord Henry, and something seems to have shifted between them. They are closer than ever, and the companionship has done them both much good in the face of the horror they bore witness to. Lord Henry is as sociable as ever, and does tend to drop in on us from time to time to let Holmes in on the gossip of the nobility, which is of potential value in the work of a consulting detective. Basil is painting again, and producing quite a few masterpieces, reviews of which I sometimes see in the newspapers. Landscapes and cityscapes and scenes of romance, or domesticity, or action, the occasional still life and one or two fantastical recreations of ancient myths. But not a single portrait.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was going to have Dorian live and just be changed to the form in the painting by some fancy trick with the frame. But, I did a bit of a re-read of parts of the book in trying to find names for the people Dorian ruined, and was confronted with a sense of how terrible a person he really was from the start, and also didn't want to depart too much from the canon with such a weak resolution to the painting issue.


End file.
